In The Beginning
by TheAlexaCon
Summary: John Watson is not gay. He just isn't. And Sherlock Holmes knows it. Of course. Platonic? Why would you ask? Just friends? What else is there to be? Does Sherlock care what John thinks about it? Yeah right. This is how The Detective solves The Doctor, and The Doctor fixes The Detective.
1. The Conclusion

**_This is the first chapter of what will eventually be a Johnlock fic of about 10 chapters, most of them shorter than this. Please give feedback as this is my first attempt at Johnlock and I really want to get better! Hope you enjoy!(Side note: this is rated M for later chapters ;D)_**

It was getting late. Too late to do this, but John hadn't given himself much choice had he?

The flat was dark, it's usually autumn-evening dark, and the fire was in need of more wood. The window-panes where compressed by the heavy London air, and the heady heat of 221B after nightfall. Sherlock's superfluous abandon of antique texts perfumed the living room. Like always in the early evenings, the scent sent John spiralling into a hazy state of comatose need. For what, he of course, was never quite sure.

Sherlock was nowhere in plain sight as John proceeded to stoke the fire, and remove his heavy coat. He bit his lip. He glanced around the flat, considering that it was more appropriate for Sherlock to be absent for this. He grabbed the phone from the kitchen, fell into his armchair and dialled the barely familiar number, with each new tone reverberating sickeningly. God, he was dreading this.

Sherlock was hidden in the ample darkness of the hallway. Smirking against the purple light, he heard the sounds of John's torment and was for once anxious to not be found by the doctor. He knew that John would rather not have Sherlock hear his latest struggle to depart from a relationship, and what John didn't know didn't hurt him. Sherlock's abilities to stretch gracefully and silently through 221B, its measurements, angles and textures etched into his subconscious, was undeniably useful for an abundance of occasions; the foremost, toying with John like he did.

He heard the minute sounds of John's guilty movements and the choked tone of his ever-strong voice as he gave a small greeting to his converser. He felt the change in John's breathing as he continued. It made him smug. He could trace every outline of John's attempts to be consoling and compassionate blind.

After waiting until the bitter exchange had reached its later stage, Sherlock waltzed into the main room, discarded his own coat and glanced toward John. Within the briefest millisecond, he had let his gaze fall upon John's strong jaw, his sweeping brow and sturdy limbs, and he had read the relief that was present upon his face.

Then Sherlock felt his breath steady a little, which was abnormal as he had never realised it had been abnormal in the first place.

Sherlock crossed to the window, and chanced another look at the doctor. The conversation was moments from its end and Sherlock could tell John hadn't seen his eyes hover over him. And that _he_ hadn't wanted Sherlock to notice his forbidden glance in his direction, as he swayed on the spot.

John spoke softly now, reassuring himself, the phone slipping away from his attention. Sherlock caught these words only, for he had paid no attention to the trivial recital that played out before him seconds ago. And he heard them with the accompanying drum of his untaught heart and surging blood.

'No, there's nobody else'

'No, he doesn't count'

'Wait, what did you say?' John pondered.

'Okay, then maybe, uh, what do you want me to do…' and Sherlock stopped listening to John's hopeless attempts.

John stopped talking entirely. He put down the phone. He sighed. He smiled weakly. The temperature in the flat grew reasonable again. He let his eyes wander to Sherlock and met his gaze with a questionable look.

'What did you expect, John?' Sitting now, in his armchair.

'She took it well, well, as well as she could, being dumped by phone,' John smirked then, fully aware that Sherlock was watching as his lips moved to form new words, and fully aware that Sherlock knew he was aware of this.

The detective brought his knees to his chin, his heels to the seat of his chair and sat with his hands resting about his neck.

'No new cases?'

'No, John'

The doctor's eyes fell to the fire; he let its soaking warmth dry out the regret he was feeling. It was unlike John to end a relationship via phone, and Sherlock had noted this with interest. He had considered all of the possible explanations, but was yet to ask John of this matter. He wondered if he should wait, until morning at least. But something about the way the doctor's hands lay on the side of the chair, and the way his back arched, and how his eyes moved to examine Sherlock's fingertips, made him ask that question then.

'John'

'Yes, Sherlock?'

'John, you understand that I don't concern myself with your private life-'

'Sherlock, you can hardly call scaring off my girl-'he began.

'John, why didn't you tell this woman that you wanted to end your relationship with her by other means, if phoning her was such hardship?'

'You're telling me, the great Sherlock Holmes can't figure that out?' John looked puzzled rather than teasing. He brought his head up to meet Sherlock's impenetrable gaze.

'It seems to me, John, that you didn't want to cause this woman any harm, and yet it also seems that you knew doing what you did, would do exactly that. You have never ended a relationship so intentionally, and it leads to me to a conclusion that baffles me in the most profound way, John.'

Sherlock had said it before he had known what it was he was saying. The way he let his dry, un-quivering explanations fall from his unexplored lips on a case turned even the most quick-witted of men into word-less observers. He liked it that way.

But now, he couldn't stop these things he saw spilling from his mouth, however true they were. John knew what was coming; the colour drained from his face. He breathing hitched. His grip on his chair tightened, and for the slightest second Sherlock let his eyes hover on John's rough, strong hands.

'John-'

'No, Sherlock, you can't interrogate me like one of the clients, this isn't how this works,'

His words had been strong and echoing, but never loud, and they hit Sherlock squarely. John, blinked. Then again. What else to say? He waited.

Sherlock looked ready to begin his monologue again, but abruptly John stood, his anxiousness to do something propelling him a foot further forward than anticipated and he found himself awkwardly positioned in front of Sherlock, his crotch level with Sherlock's head, and unbearably close.

In that moment Sherlock could have done a number of things, and all of them crossed his mind in the bizarre second for which he and John were silhouetted by the fire in their vulnerable position. He didn't however, do anything out of the ordinary.

He stared ahead for the briefest of brief moments, eyes flickering over what lay in front of him. His eyes darted upward. His hands relaxed on his neck, falling to his sides. He smiled. He saw the embarrassment in John's expression and he wished him goodnight.

John turned on the spot, brought his hand upwards to play at his hair line, and trod out of the room.

He was halfway up the stairs, when Sherlock, who had reclined in his chair and replaced his hands together below placid expression, heard him.

'Sherlock, I'm-'

'Not gay, yes, you've mentioned, John' Sherlock finished.

John continued up the stairs, wishing his shoulders hadn't flinched the way they had at the sound of Sherlock purring his name the way he did.

_**Thanks for reading this far! Please tell me what you are thinking! The next chapter will be up within a few days.**_


	2. Balance

_**Hello brilliant people! Thanks for your continued reading! I love to here your thoughts and suggestions. Enjoy!**_

London flashed by. The day was as bright and crisp and unforgiving as any other December morning in the city, and Sherlock was transfixed by it like always. John texted. Sitting on the right of Sherlock in the cab, he glanced occasionally out of the window, barely awake.

The air rolling in through the open window was as fresh as stale city air could be. Stretching, elaborate buildings laced the streets, the sky framing their pale grey with pale blue. His coat melting over his angled shoulders, and scarf trailing in his lap, Sherlock observed his city, eyes shining in the freezing air.

'Sherlock, do you mind…closing that window?' John asked, looking up from his phone to acknowledge their location.

'Not necessary, John' simmered Sherlock, not adjusting his position, or looking away from the window.

'Sherlock, I'm bloody freezing, could you?' John tried again, this time attempting to draw Sherlock's attention away from the open window.

He was ignored.

'Sherlock, please, it's the middle of December!'

Again, Sherlock did nothing. John was used to be ignored. He was a patient man, but some things, Sherlock primarily and almost wholly, got on his bloody nerves.

Sherlock sat motionless; still, staring blissfully out of the cab window.

And then John saw the smooth lines that sunk down Sherlock's neck, falling over his pale collar bones and disappearing below straining shirt. He saw the curve of his back against the dark seat and he saw sculpted shoulders giving way to long, strong arms and beautifully delicate hands.

Fuck, thought John.

He leaned back in his seat and sighed slightly. Sherlock noticed of course.

'Temper, temper, John'

Sherlock still didn't move, nor did he close the window of the taxi. John was reaching boiling point; a combination of his numbing hands and throbbing fingers, and Sherlock smirking the way he did when he thought that he'd won, made John reach toward the window and attempt to close it.

He leaned in for what he only intended to be the three seconds it would take to close the window and get out of the way before Sherlock stopped him, but he found himself out of reach. Leaning over Sherlock John used his right hand for the window and his left found Sherlock's upper leg for …balance.

John's hand dropped from the window. Sherlock now turned his head towards John, eyes flashing as John's lips fell open the tiniest degree. Leaning over Sherlock, as close to on top of him as could possibly be sitting in a cab, John felt his hand find Sherlock's inner thigh.

John still didn't move his hand, sensing the warmth in Sherlock's leg and feeling his hand tingle with Sherlock's heat. John took his eyes of his wandering hand and found Sherlock intently staring into his eyes, he light blue meeting the dark.

Just inches from Sherlock's, John's mouth twitched. Sherlock kept up the gaze and John without thinking, without any understanding of what and why he was doing this, slid his hand further along Sherlock's thigh, opening wide his palms and caressing his motionless leg.

It lasted for the slightest moment then, but the car pulled up and somewhere in the distance, although Sherlock's mouth was now centimetres from his, John heard Sherlock purring 'Time to go, John' and Sherlock backed out of the Taxi, steady eyes wandering to John's open mouth.

John followed Sherlock out of the cab, looking at the pavement as he placed his wandering hand into his coat pocket and watched Sherlock pace into St. Bart's for a minute before running to catch him up.

**_I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please let me know what I'm doing wrong and right so I can make the next better. More coming soon..._**


	3. Nothing Abnormal

**_Welcome to Chapter three! I hope you're enjoying what you're reading! This chapter is nice and brief and so is the next to follow which will be up very shortly. As always, I love to get reviews, so keep them coming! Enjoy!_**

Mid-winter had well and truly set in. The forecast was for snow, and Christmas trees glistened in every fogged-over window of Baker Street. A harsh chill had forced it's way under the floorboards, and a draft busied itself in the flat.

John's sleep was remarkably peaceful these days, considering he had not long returned from Afghanistan and was solving a homicide once a week. He was sleep in 221B, on the highest floor, and heavily too, for a large investigation at Scotland Yard had meant a busy day for him and the consulting detective.

The stagnant light of London leaped through the punctures in his blinds, leaving shadows thrown around the sparingly decorated room. John was sleeping just as he would have on any other night, until he heard a murmuring noise on the floor below. Blinking awake, he sat upright sharply, and then remembered where he was, and that murmurings in the night in London were not exactly rare, especially if you lived with Sherlock Holmes.

Still though, he decided it best to take a trip downstairs to check that all was as it should have been in the flat below. Pulling on his dressing gown, he opened the door to the landing slowly. A low rumbling met his ears as he used the light from the outdoor streetlamps to guide himself through the small landing and down the first steps.

Again he heard the sound. Humming, low and throaty. He considered for a minute, that there could easily be an intruder in 221B and he decided to double back and retrieve the gun he kept in his bedside drawer.

He started again, careful to keep the squeaking of floorboards to a minimum. As he tiptoed down the stairs, horror movie style, words became clearer and more defined. One word to be precise and he shrank back into the shadows as he heard it.

'John'

A low, breathy voice swum up into the height of the hall from the main room of 221B. John knew the voice but didn't, evidently, know its owner after all.

'John'

Again, his named spluttered from nearby lips. Shivering at the sound, John reached the bottom step and attempted to silently cross the darkened hall, his gun in hand.

'John'

There it was again. The pleading, erotic purring fell from the detective's lips without warning.

John prepared his entrance, folded into the corner of the lower hall, he could hear Sherlock so clearly ahead of him. The sweet low voice calling his name was enchanting John, ensnaring him. He tasted Sherlock's musty, perfumed scent. He breathed; in deeply. He exhaled, the gun forgotten by his side.

Slowly John moved on the spot, and slid into the cold of the living room. Letting his eyes adjust to the new darkness here, John glanced around expectantly.

It was empty. Still and empty. Darkness penetrated every corner of the living room and the quiet was intoxicating, John completed his blinking routine. He stared around the room. His mouth fell open. He closed it. He turned on the spot, taking in every exit. He had been so sure that-

No, he had imagined it. As he had thought, it was just another noise of London at night and he was paranoid. He crossed the room and took a look down the stairs leading to the lower floor. Nothing abnormal.

He spun back into the living room, took in its emptiness and felt disappointment settle in is throat.

Oh, thought John.

He turned and left, marching out and into the hall. Along the lengthy corridor, the smallest quiver shook the door of Sherlock's bedroom. It would have been invisible had not the flat been as solid and frozen as it was. John's eyes traced the rectangle of the doorway.

John stood there in the hall for several moments, before slowly plodding back up the stairs and into his bedroom, where he lay awake for some time before continuing his sleep.

_**Thanks for being such lovely readers. I love to see what you're thinking so please go ahead and leave a review!**_


	4. Presumption Part 1

_**Hello readers! Thank you for reading this far! Please leave reviews, so I know what to do more of and less of. Also, plenty of smut soon! I promise! ;)**_

_**So, this is the first part of larger and more important chapter in the development of John and Sherlock's relationship. This first section is quite short and is building up to later events... Enjoy!**_

Late morning on Baker Street meant the daily papers, coaxing Sherlock out of his dressing gown and into real clothes, Mrs Hudson busily dusting, and new cases, if there were any worth bothering Sherlock Holmes for.

This morning in Baker Street had seen a visit from Lestrade with an urgent case; urgent on the grounds that Lestrade wanted it out of the way before Christmas and that gave him seven hours, a time period to which only Sherlock Holmes could work. Sherlock and John, finishing breakfast, had told Lestrade they would meet him at the station.

Mrs Hudson watched Lestrade drive away down Baker Street from the living room window, as Sherlock began pacing the room. Lestrade had told Sherlock little about the case, naturally, with Mrs Hudson present it wouldn't do well for confidentiality. Sherlock worked on the few facts he had, muttering under his breath, still pacing, eyes flashing.

John, who had relocated to his arm chair to tie his shoes, gave a small smile which Sherlock didn't fail to notice.

'John?' said Sherlock, eyeing the doctor with amusement.

'I was just smiling Sherlock, problem with that?' replied John.

'No,' Sherlock continued.

He kept up the pacing for a few more moments; the time it took for John to help Mrs Hudson clear the table. John re-entered the room, and stopped in front of Sherlock, giving again what had turned into a rather knowing smile.

'What, John?' This time the irritation present in Sherlock voice was obvious.

John changed his expression, looked at the floor and said 'No, sorry nothing'

'What is is John? Am I amusing?' barked Sherlock.

'Sherlock…I- it's nothing, let's go,' replied John, and Sherlock could sense the urgent tone in his voice. Nevertheless, he continued.

'Have you something to say, John?' Sherlock had dared to ask what John wasn't going to. He sent a sharp look at John.

'Sherlock! I said I-'

'Should I go, dears?' came Mrs Hudson's mousy voice from the other side of the kitchen table.

'No, no…' John turned to Mrs Hudson, who looked a little worried and he realised how loudly him and Sherlock had been shouting. Sherlock too turned his head a little toward Mrs Hudson.

'No, Mrs Hudson, everything is fine. But thank you, thank you for… breakfast' Sherlock had a well-practiced apology to Mrs Hudson by now. She smiled faintly, regardless, and he did too, as she turned and began cleaning the sink.

John felt a huge pang of admiration for Sherlock then, and why he had little idea. His arms loosened and he breathed out lightly, looking at Sherlock as he turned back to him. He gave a quiet smirk, an acknowledgement of their understanding…

'We've an urgent case waiting, John' sung Sherlock as placed a firm hand on John's shoulder and lead him from the room, snatching up his coat and scarf on the way out.

**_Hmmm, what are you thinking? Please leave a review and let me know! Thank you for reading, lovely people...I absolutely promise that you will get smut soon! _**


	5. Presumption Part 2

_**Part Two of Presumption. Hope you enjoy this section and leave reviews!**_

The pregnant darkness settled over Baker Street In the late afternoon. The traffic had thinned but would soon grow heavy again. The evening air was hung with the scent of mistletoe and pine tree needles. The night had fallen fully over 221B now, and the draft in the flat was extinguished by a roaring fire, to which Sherlock was adjacent in his chair.

The case at Scotland Yard had been solved within the hour. Sherlock had seen it from the beginning, but thought he'd take his time about it today. After all, it was Christmas. John had headed out round the corner to the local pub to meet friends. He'd tried to persuade Sherlock to join him, but Sherlock said he'd rather stay at home, to keep Mrs Hudson company.

Mrs Hudson had left the flat hours ago; she was being met by family tomorrow morning on the other side of London and was packing downstairs. Sherlock waited for John to return; he knew he wouldn't stay late. True to his word, and the note he'd left, John returned swiftly.

He slowly climbed the stairs, his coat damp from the snow that had begun falling outside. He came into the flat, taking in the warm surroundings and the sight of Sherlock rested by the fire.

'You okay, Sherlock?' asked the Doctor.

'Hmmm,' was the reply he got.

John yawned and plodded over to the fire where he pulled over his armchair, next to Sherlock's and sat, taking in the stifling heat and cosiness. The arm of his chair was compressed against the arm of Sherlock's; John was closer to Sherlock than had been since the morning. He turned his head toward his flatmate, who responded likewise.

'Merry Christmas, John' purred Sherlock.

'You too, Sherlock'

The two men smiled.

They had been sat, content with their own thoughts in front of the fire, for a good thirty minutes before Sherlock asked 'How was the pub, John?'

'Good, good to see people. Told them about you of course, and the blog,' John nodded to himself. 'You could have come, Sher-'

'I was happy here, John'

Again, the sound of his name falling from the Detective's lips caught John's breath. He felt warmth spreading in his stomach and he couldn't help smiling. He glanced over at the taller man, reclining in his chair, long limps dangling from the furniture. John noticed that his hand was centimetres form Sherlock's. The cold, delicate fingers sprawled on the arm of John's chair.

Sherlock saw John taking him in; his eyes flickering to each individual button of Sherlock's shirt, down his slender legs, back to his mouth again. Sherlock saw John lick his lips, slowly, but it wasn't clear if there was intention behind his soft blue gaze.

A surging of joy rose in Sherlock and he felt his limps go numb. The expectation building in his chest, and the attraction pumping around his body like he had never known before.

He then forgot all subtlety. Bringing his eyes over John's taught, strong arms. he saw large rough hands falling close to his. He imagined how it would feel to smooth _his_ hands along John's muscular chest, straddling his lap, leaning down over him, gazing into his piercing blue eyes, feeling John's hot lips on his own soft skin.

He saw the Doctor's open mouth once again, and every thought left him. He sat there, and trained his eyes on John's.

John couldn't believe what it was he saw. It couldn't be. He goggled as he observed Sherlock looking him up and down, his wet lips parted, his gaze roving from John's hands to his chest to his lips and into his eyes.

The two men sat in front of the billowing fire. John had leaned forward, without knowing it, so that he was partially sitting in Sherlock's chair with him, and Sherlock made no attempts to stop him. John gazed at the younger man with disbelief. He took in his dark curls and brilliant eyes. The length of his arms and their grace as he swung himself forward.

Sherlock effortlessly pushed himself across his chair, his disregard for furniture entirely apparent. John fell backwards, Sherlock pushing him against the chair seat. Sherlock hung above him, arms rested against the chair on either side of john's rising and falling chest.

Everything was horizontal.

Sherlock's parted lips hovered irresistibly, an inch above John's. John still took in Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock saw the blue of John's eyes. He saw them closing. He felt john catch his own lips in his. He felt his eyes close and tasted sweet undeniable joy.

Sherlock fell into john, totally lost in his scent and his touch. Arm's flailing, John pulled Sherlock in closer, and Sherlock could feel John's heart tearing through his shirt. He dissolved into him, knowing nothing else but the sound of his erratic breathing and the feel of John's tongue pushing through his lips.

And then John felt Sherlock rising away from him, and within a second Sherlock stood, an expression of blatant confusion spreading through his face. He stumbled, looked at John questioningly and made his way swiftly from the room. John was left in his chair, gazing open mouthed at Sherlock as he watched him up the stairs.

_**Thanks for reading! Please tell me what your thinking! **_


	6. Brain Damage

_**Hello readers! Thank you for reading and reviewing! **_

John slammed his feet, one in front of the other. Head up, he roared after the suspect, tearing through a back alley after the would-be-thief.

'Stop right there!' he bellowed, but the nimble-footed woman had already fled. John supposed she had the advantage, being younger. He backed off into the little alley, careful not to arouse anymore suspicion; he had after all just been seen chasing after a seemingly innocent young women in a dark alleyway.

Bloody hell, he thought. Turning now, deciding which was the quickest way back to Baker Street and Sherlock, so he could relay he his information. A harsh wind spread through the gap between the towering building and John pulled his collar closer around him. He began to make his way home when he felt a throbbing blow to the back of his head. He stumbled a little, dazed. Whipping round to confront his attacker, he was shocked to see the girl standing there. Her stance suggested she hadn't finished, hair blowing back from her face and eyes wide with enthusiasm for her new subject.

She went to strike again, fully aware that John wasn't about to hit her as he knew she could spin this on him if they were found like this. He dropped to his knees, dodging her punches. He stood quickly and skirted behind her, catching some of her punches and kicks. She was vicious, not with so much skill, but with the intention of leaving John without the memory of her face. He knew this too, and was anxious to get away as soon as possible.

But the girl was too quick for John. She clawed and grabbed at him, and he was stuck between fighting to get lose, and fighting to look like he wasn't attacking the woman. Then he was on the ground, and then the muscular woman was throwing him against the wall. She said a few words that John didn't understand. John was almost sure it was either Russian or brain damage.

There was a moment where all John saw were arms and legs and the ground and the sky. Ears burning against the cold and knuckles crushed against the hard paving of the alley, the noise of passing traffic was drowning out the harsh cries of his attacker. Then he saw his chance. He began to break free, tearing away from the suspect, when he felt another blow to his head and fell instantly.

He rolled over onto his front, white lights blurring his vision. He saw his new acquaintance, a man in uniform; he looked thin but strong and could have easily come to the aid of the squealing girl he saw in the alley before him. Then John saw another outline. A familiar angled figure.

Sherlock.

He saw the man in front fall wordlessly, and he felt Sherlock slender hands dragging him upwards by the waist. His vision entirely obscured, he relied on Sherlock's heavy, low out-of-breath breathing and the panicked conversation around him, to work out what was going on.

'Stop!' an unfamiliar voice.

'Stop right there!' he heard his own words repeated by yet another man.

The voices were distant, growing closer.

'Wait there sir, wait,' the first man again. Still they grew closer, their footsteps growing louder.

'Sherlock...' John heard himself splutter. He had no idea as to how incoherent he was. The footsteps were so close now and Sherlock did nothing.

Then John felt his head being lifted to meet Sherlock's. He felt the reliable arm around his waist tighten. Sherlock rested his forehead against John's to steady his throbbing head. And what seemed like millimetres away, he heard Sherlock hum 'When I say run, run.'

John hissed some words of understanding. And yet before he could even consider the implications of Sherlock's instructions, he saw the hazy image before him of blue eyes disappearing and his lips melted into Sherlock's. Again, John thoughtlessly seeped into Sherlock, everything forgotten. The footsteps seemed to stop. His breathing slowed, he became Sherlock and himself at once. His stomach sung with a new sense of longing. He had no idea as to why, when he needed to get them out of there, Sherlock was doing what he was, but John could never argue.

And then he heard Sherlock breathe the word into his mouth.

'Run.'

And now he understood. The footsteps had stopped. Sherlock had bought them time, created a distraction. And now as John was dragged along by Sherlock, his vision slowly clearing as the air whipped into his eyes from their speed, he understood why Sherlock had kissed him.

Sherlock held tightly onto John's hand until they reached a deserted street. John had nothing to say, yet.

Sherlock dropped his hand and walked over to him quickly. John thought he was about to kiss him again, but Sherlock was checking the blackening bruises on John's head and hands.

'Can you see now, John?' he enquired.

'Yeah, sort of. Umm Sherlock, what was that-'

'Police officer, saw you and the girl' he smirked 'in the alleyway. It's a shame they didn't get the chance to question her, but ' he paused 'well, you got into a bit of trouble.'

Noticing the confusion that had settled upon his flatmates expression, Sherlock added 'The second time you fell…' Then he stopped, because John didn't care.

'And you where…?' John had decided he probably wasn't going to let this go.

'I had…been following you to see if I could cut off the young lady. You had little chance of avoiding them on your own, John,' Staring John out now, Sherlock too wasn't going to give in that easily.

'And, what-'

Sherlock looked at the floor, and then back at John. He swallowed.

'What that, I mean to say…we needed a distraction and what I did provided that. Now are you able to walk alright from here, John?'

John, whose jaw remained dropped, in a mixture of awe and confusion, nodded, and they made their way back to Baker Street, through the cold of the steaming city, and without mention of prior events.

_**Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**_


	7. Revelations

**_Another chapter..thanks for reviewing! I wasn't going to put this up today, but well, I really wanted to! I know it's two chapters in one day but I really love your comments, so thanks! Also, I absolutely and hole heartedly promise you'll get your very fair share of JOHNLOCK SMUT new chapter! (Yes, that needed to be capitalised, it is Johnlock afterall!)_**

The flashing cameras and high-pitched shouts flicked through the adjacent roads. The storm of black and metal and hungry enquiries dripped out of Baker Street through the alleys and side streets and cracks between ridged buildings. The littering of open questions, the deadly sting of the cold, and the confusion, and the desire for a story; it all hung in the air like trip wires in a smoke. A swarm of pulsating press members and the accompanying paparazzi buzzed at the consulting detective's heels.

He stood, eyes motionless and blue and still in the dazed light of one million flashes. The detective's sweeping coat brushed against his defensive stance, and he stood barely a minute in the crushing gaze of the masses.

He answered only the simplest of questions, stood on the steps of 221b with his Doctor, who too stood silently, avoiding the harsh glare of the eyes and the cameras. The newly-solved case and it's finer details soon forgotten, it was not long before the detective and the doctor crazed the warmth and the stillness and the company of 221b, mere metres above them.

'Mr Holmes, how much are Scotland Yard paying you for your assistance?' jived one voice. From other mouths were spat the questions 'Where do you get your information Mr Holmes?' and 'Do you intend to continue picking up after the police force?' and 'Rooming with Doctor John Watson, your first choice for a flatmate?' and then 'Is the consulting detective nearing retirement soon, Mr Holmes?'

Sherlock barely uttered a word. Neither did John; they shared no glances and bared expressionless faces for their audience. The cameras flashed still. And then, 'Sherlock Holmes, the virgin?'

And then a voice cooed 'Your relationship, gentlemen, just platonic?'

They hummed and buzzed and sung all at once. The relentless cries and shouts and clicks and flashes didn't relent. John's cheeks burned. Sherlock, master of the disguise, did, well… just that.

'Sherlock Holmes… and the bachelor? No longer a bachelor then, Doctor Watson?'

Sherlock turned. He strode up some two steps past John, gently brushing against the man's shoulder with his own outstretched arm, and then opened the heavy door. His doctor followed Sherlock into

221b, closing the door on the world outside. He rattled the lock of the door, which gave a sharp click. He inhaled the immediate quiet; the smell of the books and the tea, and the hum of the radiators.

Turning, John clambered up the stairs after Sherlock. Removing his coat and his gloves, he heard the detective ahead of him.

'Tea, John?'

John said yes, thank you, and headed into the living room, where he fell into his armchair and sighed deeply. John listened to the sound of Sherlock in the kitchen. He heard the rumble of the kettle and the clinking of china on wood and metal. It was a few moments before Sherlock appeared, carrying one singular mug. Handing it to John, he stared across the room and out of the window, into the surrounding metropolis. The tall man paced over toward the cool light of the windows, and glanced down into the street where the debris of the recent storm was picked through by a whirl of taxis.

John sipped the mug of steaming tea. And through the steam he stared at his flatmate, and watched as he sauntered back into the centre of the room, decided upon in which direction he was to go, and then slumped down into his chair. Sherlock, the ever unflustered, looked at John. And John looked at him.

Without cue, they both burst out laughing, so much so that John almost split his tea. Sherlock's eyes danced on John's worn smile. The two men laughed and laughed; they sat and giggled about the day; the way Lestrade had gawped when Sherlock told him to arrest the carpet fitter, Molly's innocent yet terrible jokes and the i-will-kill-you-one-day-Holmes look on Anderson's face when Sherlock had summoned him from the yard, to search through six skips to find one very particular blown light-bulb, of which there were several others.

The light in Baker Street grew tired, as did John. Sherlock moved to turn on a lamp. When he came back to his seat, he could tell that John was about to change the subject entirely. Sherlock looked at John, and saw the blue in his eyes and the pink of his cheeks. He saw the curiosity that hid in his expression.

'What is it, John?' the detective purred.

'Sherlock, what those reporters said…' Sherlock glazed over a little. John could tell he was trying his best to remember this occasion, but the information wasn't something that Sherlock had cared for then. When Sherlock once more appeared aware of John talking, he had taken on a worried look. He appeared a little subdued, even anxious. Yes, the great Sherlock Holmes _was_ worried.

'Sherlock, have you ever… been with...' John was crap at this. How was he supposed to do it? Why was he doing this? Bloody hell, thought John. He could get up now, thank Sherlock for the tea and never mention it again. But, of course, he didn't.

'… a woman…or a man…or-'The words were spoken to the floor. Sherlock considered his answer.

John thought he saw the faintest glimmer of a smile twitch at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

The taller man took his hands from under his chin and placed them on his thighs. John watched as he did. He followed the elegant hands onto long, strong legs and then he was in that blasted cab again. With his shivering fingers upon Sherlock thigh and Sherlock's lips inches from his. He tilted his head and looked Sherlock in the eyes once again.

'John, my brother doesn't know as much as he assumes he does,' Sherlock let the word ripple through the air and fall onto John's burning ears.

'Oh...' John's eyes widened.

'John, do I seem like a man to report the…finer details of my private life, back to Mycroft Holmes?'

John started, but stuttered mid-sentence and fell silent. He felt a booming in his ears, which would have made him jump had he not known that it was his own leaping pulse that had invaded his senses. Sherlock performed a definite smirk this time. John was surprised, and Sherlock liked that.

**_Thank you for reading! Please go ahead and leave your review! Johnlock smut is fast approaching!_**


	8. Steam

_**Okay..here's the next chapter! Please read and tell me what you think!**_

The thing that most people didn't know about 221b Baker Street, was the ease in which you could move throughout the flat without being seen. The main living space formed a circular route; from the kitchen out into the hall, back into the main room, past the fireplace and back into the kitchen. The hallway lead to the bathroom and Sherlock's room and the bathroom lead to Sherlock's room, and Sherlock's room lead to the bathroom. It was then, entirely possible for someone with a substantial knowledge of the flat, to move about it, without other dwellers aware of the activity.

The fire was alight. The dimmed lamps and towering stacks of books littered through the flat, cast elongated shadows to fall across the red sea of carpet and furniture. The air was rich with the smell of the wood on the fire, and the delight under way downstairs in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, and the soap and steam that transpire when you leave open the bathroom door. The ordered glass panes of 221b were almost opaque with the heady steam, and the warmth of the fire. John sat. He sat in his chair in the relative heat of the flat and picked through one of Sherlock's books that had been left open. The darkness outside was the last of the recent winter and John, at least, was looking forward to the lighter nights of the summer seasons.

Sherlock was to be found in the bathroom; the source of the steam, and the newly perfumed smell of the flat. John could hear him humming in the distant echoing of the tiled room. He could imagine the slender pale limbs of the detective slipping through the condensed air in the small room. He saw before him the image of his friend drenched in the warm water of the shower, soap trickling down his long structured back and over his magnificent, tight arse.

What, no. John wasn't all that sure if he had just thought what he had thought he had thought. Wait, none of this was making sense. And then John lost concentration entirely. The thought came before him again. The soft unexplored skin of the tall, strong man just feet away and longing to be touched. Begging to be licked and kissed and felt.

'John' the detective called the doctor's name in the way that made the later shiver with anticipation. But, maybe he was just imagining it, like before.

But no, there it was again. The erotic purring fell from the taller man's lips and echoed through the flat and found the doctor, who had to shake away the longing that had built within him. He blinked. He rose to his feet. The urgency in Sherlock's voice increased the third time he called John's name. John needed Sherlock more than anything. But he didn't know it. Well, of course he didn't.

He calmed himself down. He made his way toward the bathroom.

'John, come over here' Sherlock hummed.

John reached the door of the bathroom. 'Sherlock, what is it?' he enquired, his voice a little shaky.

'Towels, John' Sherlock replied.

'Yeah….' John was expecting something awful. He dreaded to think what fate had awaited the towels that already lay in the bathroom.

'John, just come in here,' Sherlock purred again. John heard a distinct note of desire in the man's voice.

'Sherlock-'

John stepped into the room. The steam almost choked him. The perfume of the room was overwhelming. He glanced around through the haze and was cut off mid-sentence by the sight that played out before him.

'Oh, Sherlock,' John didn't know where to look.

It wasn't as if he hadn't seen another man's naked arse before. But, he hadn't- he didn't know what-

Sherlock stood on the other side of the room, against and facing the wall. His hair was a little damp from the steam and his smooth and pale skin, that stretched over his angled shoulders and back, was dripping with the heat and the soap of the steam room Sherlock had created. He stood, hands on hips, legs a little apart and head up.

'John, a towel, from the cupboard in the hall?'

'What?' John had forgotten entirely why he had entered the room in the first place. His mouth had fallen open and he stared relentlessly at the man before him. His eyes fell down over Sherlock's thighs and then to his shapely behind and up his gracefully arched back to his muscular shoulder blades and the sweeping curve of his neck. He imagined himself pacing up to Sherlock, slamming him against the wall. Bending the 'virgin' detective over and fucking him hard until John's name echoed from every surface in Baker Street.

But he didn't.

'Oh, yeah the towel. Umm, one second…' John left quickly and returned within a second with a fresh towel. He noticed that there were none in the bathroom and wondered what would have made Sherlock Holmes forget such an essential object. He left again, quickly.

The heat and the steam and the smell of the shower room hid Sherlock's all-knowing smile as John closed the door of the bathroom. The detective smirked to himself. Even his most obscure deductions were proving to be correct.

The evening wore on and the flat grew warmer and darker. Mrs Hudson had appeared, asked John about his day and reminded Sherlock to eat breakfast tomorrow if he didn't eat dinner today, and fluttered back downstairs. Sherlock came from the bathroom cocooned in his towel, wandered through the flat and headed in to his bedroom, where he stayed.

In the bathroom, John undressed, climbed into the shower and turned on the cold tap. He stood for a minute or two, before warming the water, and thought about his day. And then his mind fell to the events of the evening. He thought about Sherlock against the wall he saw before him now and he thought about the flickering doubt in his stomach. John wasn't a changeable man. And he got angry when people treated him like a child whose feelings were dependant on the time of day or the season. No, he definitely was a man who knew what he wanted.

And as he thought about this his mind turned once again to the assumptions of those around him. He wasn't gay. John simply wasn't gay. Not that it would be a problem if he was, it was all fine in John's mind, but he just wasn't.

As John stood and considered, the room filled with steam once again. And then the smallest noise caused him to turn around. He saw no change to the room and continued with his shower. But in that moment he thought he had longed that he would see Sherlock behind him, striding through the room, arms outstretched and then grasping against John's hot, wet skin. John felt the long and slender hands of the man, wrapping around his waist. He felt Sherlock's taught chest pressed against his back.

But, wait. John turned around. Sherlock stood before him. Hands stretching over John's chest and feet intertwined on the bath floor. The taller man's eyes fixed upon John's reddening lips. John stared at the Sherlock's blue eyes. He saw the desire that shone in them, something he had seen only rarely, previously. Then he glanced down.

_Yup, he's entirely naked alright,_ thought John, raising his eyebrows slightly.

The pale skin of Sherlock's chest dripped with hot water. His arms, veined and long, pulled John tight and close to him. John's eyes fell to the small water droplet that had placed itself upon Sherlock's upper lip. One precise centimetre from his own, John saw the pink of Sherlock's enticing mouth tighten into a sharp smirk, and the water droplet fell onto Sherlock's bottom lip.

Abruptly, but in one strong and unflinching second, Sherlock moved to push John firmly against the wall of the bathroom. One flexed hand found John's left butt cheek, and the other worked its way over John's shoulder blades. He sunk into John, catching their lips and pressing himself against the strong and rough skinned man, his hands working into him. John groaned against Sherlock's neck, as he felt the taller man shoving his erection against the side of his own, shaking thigh.

John stood there, arms draped over the younger man's shoulders, eyes closed, letting Sherlock invade and explore and caress every inch of his body. He pulled his arms around to grab the detective's arse; the most desired location. He pulled Sherlock closer to him, and virtually on top of him, and the man gave a low hiss as John bit his lower lip.

'Sherlock...' John moaned through the steam, as the detective kissed him again, he slid his tongue over John's lips and John sighed. Then he opened them and found himself melting into Sherlock again, and had he not been compressed against the wall, and by the tall man and his throbbing cock, he would have keeled over onto the floor.

His eye's flickered open to meet Sherlock's gaze and he felt the man moving his hands to caress his hips as he himself pulled Sherlock still closer, so that John's bulging erection met Sherlock's. The man hissed heavily and John was overwhelmed immediately in lust, and with an uncontrollable desire for the detective. Sherlock responded thoroughly, and still more roughly, shoving John up into the wall with his groin, grinding into his erection.

John gave a unmistakeably longing groan and Sherlock laced his arms around his doctor once more, lifting him slightly and letting his hands explore the man's lower back and tight, soapy arse. John was lost in Sherlock's touch, so fulfilling and deft were his hands that John was left to whimper, propped up against the sweating bathroom tiles. John felt the man's strong grip tighten on his waist and he felt Sherlock's hands sink to his arse. Sherlock pushed into John's thrashing erection once more, causing John to roar out in frustration and indisputable longing, as the taller, darker man pushed John higher against the wall and let his hands slide under John's legs.

John blinked, every nerve in his body begging for the sweet fate that Sherlock intended. John blinked again. He saw the man before him stretching those hands over his legs and groaned involuntarily, again.

John placed his weary hands on Sherlock's shoulders, pressing down lightly. He closed his legs and slid down the wall. Sherlock took his hands from John at once, without looking at anything at all. He backed out of the still flowing shower. John turned to face the wall.

An hour-long second later, he heard the door close gently on the bathroom. Peering around the curtain, he sighted the empty room. Slowly he sunk down the wall, head in hands, the warm water soaking his hair and head and neck.

_**Please review! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!**_


	9. Motive and Opportunity Part 1

_**Hello Readers! I am so profoundly sorry that it has taken me this long to post another chapter. I have so little time, but am becoming gradually more organised, so hopefully this will be the last time you are waiting so long! I am so so so sorry! On the other hand, this is another two-part chapter, which is good if you liked the last two part chapter. I really hope you enjoy it! **_

For once, a mist had settled at the foot of 221's door, the delicate fringes of an unusual fog, filling the windows of the buildings on Baker Street. The sweet early morning hum of commuting taxis hurried in the distance, and in through several doors, even though he sun had not long risen, lights still flickered. 221b was quiet. The smell of forgotten coffee floated in the air. A window had been propped open slightly with a cover-less book, and the curtains hung heavy with the precipitation that had gathered from a night's frost.

Through the living room and into the kitchen, where a Consulting Detective rested over his microscope, the flat warmed a little, but the floors where still cold to bare feet.

The noise didn't make Sherlock look up, as it might have those of us as yet unable to control our reflexes. The squeaking of a door in the hall only influenced the Detective as far a small twitch of the mouth; John's door, Sherlock knew, because of the way the sound flicked upward at the end (but mainly because John was the only other person in the flat at this precise moment). This reaction, in all fairness, was more than most received upon entrance. Sherlock though, was reluctant to give anything more away.

John appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. Ruffled hair, slippered feet, bags under half closed eyes, an empty tea mug clasped in hand, and bearing an expression of utter nothingness upon his face. He looked to greet Sherlock, but seemed to either change his mind mid-thought, or run out of words altogether, which was not a good start seeing as he hadn't used any words yet this morning.

He stood there in the doorway perhaps a second too long, but Sherlock, as you might expect under normal circumstances, didn't adjust his accustomed position.

John eyed him cautiously, half expecting the Detective to leap into a full scale monologue at any second. He performed his signature pout, and crossed through kitchen to the living room. Sherlock watched as he shuffled out of the room, the taller man's eyes hovering for a second on the space John had vacated.

A few minutes had passed before Sherlock was given an excuse to leave his place over the microscope. John reappeared, quite silently this time.

'Sherlock,' John's acknowledgement felt thin in the air after the previous night's proceedings.

'Um, Sherlock, do you think that maybe we-' John tugged at every millimetre of courage he bore within him, and tried so desperately to say the words without any deep intention.

'It's on the table.' The detective cut through the air so shamelessly with his low and reverberating statement.

_What is Sherlock talking about? Is he talking about us? Is this it? Is he telling me that now that…oh my god, he's saying we both know what's going on? Dear God...I'm going to faint. What do I do? Jesus, Sherlock, if you are seriously about to say...oh god, I'm actually going to faint._

He didn't.

'The coffee table, John,'

'What, Sherlock?'

'The post, that's what you were looking for?'

'Oh, yeah, yes, yes thanks,' John shuffled out of the room once more.

An hour passed. The walls of 211b had grown lighter as shadows ascended the walls, and the fog rose a little. John had showered and dressed before Sherlock had left the microscope this time. He skirted through the flat, wary of reaching Sherlock's company, and somewhat anxious not to. Checking pockets, spinning on the spot to look for hazards that could become more hazardous before his return, and picking up his keys, John departed.

He was not halfway down the stairs however, when he heard his favourite sound.

'John, are you forgetting something?'

The Doctor's stomach seemed to roll over, which he didn't suspect to be normal behaviour for stomachs. Turning ever so slighting, to face up the stairs, John attempted to collect his thoughts. And then he abandoned that, to clamber back up the stairs.

By the time he reached the top of the brief flight, he heart was pounding steadily. His vision span markedly more than normal. He was anxious, excited, apprehensive. He was everything at once. What Sherlock wanted, John had little idea. Striding into the living room, John was more or less unaware of, well, everything. It was everything about John in that moment that was focussed on finding Sherlock.

He barely needed to look. The dark haired man stood now, breathing rapidly himself, against the deep purple shirt that seemed to have formed around his own chest. The sweeping suit trousers; John loved them and the way that glided over Sherlock's thighs and Sherlock's arse and Sherlock's calves. John didn't stop his forward march until it was a second too late, and he found himself four inches from Sherlock's, chest, Sherlock's eyes, and Sherlock's neck.

The detective began to form words upon his pinking lips, but John was having none of it. The shorter man propelled himself forward on his tiptoes instinctively, meeting his lips with the Detective's. Inside John's head, bells hummed and he fell deeply into Sherlock once again. He brushed Sherlock's lips with his tongue, kissing him still more affectionately. Sherlock nearly caught John then, but instead he briskly pulled away from him, staring at the floor, feeling the need, for the first time in his life, to whistle.

'John, you forgot you wallet?' Sherlock could barely say it.

'Oh yeah,' The two words were so flushed red that they dripped scarlet paint onto the carpet of 221b .

_**Thank you all for reading; please tell me what I'm doing right/wrong, so I can be getting better! Thank you if you've been reviewing;your reviews are so flattering. I really have the nicest readers ever!**_


	10. Motive and Opportunity Part 2

_**Hi! So, this looks to the last chapter of this fic. I'll be carrying on my JOHNLOCK (wooop) in other drabbles and stories etc. I really hope you like this conclusion. Please tell em what you think!**_

John paced through Baker Street, climbing the occasional curb and then sliding off of it, marching around the oncoming taxis, and humming entirely tunelessly. He pondered the morning's events, Sherlock's reaction, how his own ears, and throat - and fingernails for god's sake - had turned the deepest crudest blood red that there ever was. And then he was at the door of 221 and his key was in the door, and he shuffled inside and then was up the stairs and into the flat.

John made his usual way in to his not so usual living room and saw the elegant detective by the window. He faced into the room, and as John pulled off his coat and took in the flawless silhouette perched before the light, he noticed that the swirling blue eyes were staring brashly into his own grey. And then he realised they were shaking, quite steadily, but shaking still, and their owners palms hung softly by legs, uncurled and intention-less.

'Sherlock, bloody hell, are you okay? Sherlock?'

The good doctor spoke softly as he rushed over toward the detective, taking his wrist in one hand, the other finding its way onto Sherlock's shoulder. The detective stared ahead, lips wavering and limbs heavy with the weight of his indecision. He appeared a vision of total uncontrolled existence. Sherlock's knees shook, and he fell lightly against John who fell with him onto the sofa waiting nearby. The impact seemed to reawaken Sherlock. He glanced deeply into John's eyes, and reading his thoughts it seemed, sharply tugged at the sleeve of his shirt to show John the clean unbroken flesh of his forearm.

In one swift movement then, Sherlock flicked his arms into action and hunched over on the sofa, hands pressed against wild hair, head rested between wrists.

'John, I-'

'I'll make tea' said the shorter man.

It was a few minutes of mug shuffling and cupboard creaking between the pair's next interaction. John came back to Sherlock with mugs of tea, placing them down with a sharp clink. He dropped onto the sofa next to Sherlock. One hand returned to Sherlock's angled shoulder and the other moved to clasp his chin and swing his reddening face to John's. Inches apart, John's favourite place, Sherlock hummed.

'Sorry, John, I-'

The detective looked sweetly into John's eyes. John felt clueless, like something had been stolen, like he had been given a gift to which enormity he was unworthy. Sherlock simmered.

'Sherlock, what's wrong? Is it...Mycroft?' Or…'

Sherlock shrugged off John's attempts at consoling him. He brought knees to chin and hands to throat, John's warm hands still resting against pale skin.

'John, it's you…I am sorry,' Sherlock looked away, but John's hands just pressed tighter against his skin.

'John, I don't think that, I am not sure as to… John'

The detective became more and more distressed, and slowly began rocking, back and forth. John shuffled closer to him, pulling his arms around the younger man, and resting his chin on the detective's crossed forearms.

'Tell me,'

The words were rough and soft and warm and expectant, and they made Sherlock smile very simply.

'I am worried, John, that you may not want to live here for all that long, and whilst I know you will leave inevitably, I just can't comprehend-' Sherlock was speaking slowly, as if every word uttered had to be forced out for fear of rejection. '- what I would do, what I did when, you weren't here. John, I know that-' The doctor let Sherlock talk; he saw the concentration with which Sherlock performed his explanation and knew that this had been a long time coming. 'I am not, of all people, the easiest to, live, share a flat with, and John, I am so sorry.'

John waited until Sherlock had spluttered every last word. He listened to the silence that radiated from the ceiling and the walls and the floor. He looked into Sherlock's wild eyes.

'Sherlock, don't be an idiot' John titled his head a little upon Sherlock's arms.

'Sherlock, I am here, now. And sharing a flat- living with you is, well one of the best things to happen to me, Sherlock Holmes, and, Sherlock, I am very glad to have met you.'

Sherlock inhaled sharply, and John exhaled with a guilty smile.

John liked the way Sherlock's hair felt neatly into messy place, and how the lightest blue of his eyes melted into green at his pupils. He loved the man's nose. And the prettiness of his cold and unforgiving lips.

The detective shifted a little under John. He felt the man's rough and intentioned hands on his shoulders tighten and felt John's chest rising and falling steadily. The two men caught each other's eyesight, they smiled, they laughed.

And then, once again, they were horizontal. More or less.

Everything grew smaller and larger at once, Sherlock brought his face so close to John's that John could feel soft eyelashes against the bridge of his nose. In their own darkness, Sherlock brushed his lips against John's playfully.

And then 'Sherlock, you do know I'm not actually gay…' John whispered with all seriousness.

'Oh, John, I know,' came the reply.

And Sherlock lunged forward, arms flung around his lover's waist in desperation. John responded with the same giddy enthusiasm, kissing Sherlock with as much ferocity as he knew. Running a hand through dark hair, placing kisses on flexing collar bone, John smiled wickedly as Sherlock kissed him back vigorously.

**_Thank you so much for reading this fic! Please tell me what you like and don't like, and please go ahead and suggest your ideas for what be writing about next! I love getting reviews, so please go ahead and do that too. I hope you've enjoyed reading this, and I promise that you will get plenty more Johnlock from me soon!_**


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